


He Who Eats Alone, Chokes Alone

by Myrime



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Iron Man (Movies), Marvel, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Bingo, Cooking, Don't copy to another site, Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts, Fluff, Gen, Iron Man Bingo 2019, Italian Tony Stark, Team as Family, learning to cook
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-09
Updated: 2019-03-09
Packaged: 2019-11-14 08:25:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18049040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Myrime/pseuds/Myrime
Summary: “You call this cooking?” It is all Tony can do not to raise his hands over his head and scream to the heavens. The Italian blood in his veins is shouting for murder. “This is atrocious. I mean -” Tony stops short as his eyes fall on the other pot still sitting almost innocently on the stove. “Are those supposed to be spaghetti?”Tony looks around in the kitchen, at the unapologetic mess Steve has left behind. Fight or flight, he thinks. He almost regrets that he has never been the kind to back down.- Steve tries to poison the Avengers by making dinner. Tony saves the day.





	He Who Eats Alone, Chokes Alone

**Author's Note:**

> This is pure fluff. For the Iron Man Bingo 2019. Square "Learning to Cook".  
> The title is an Arabian proverb.  
> Enjoy!

Tony opens the door to the kitchen, only to be met by a wall of smoke. The cheerful greeting he had on his lips dies, quickly cut off by a coughing fit. The smoke cloud seems to be made of crushed peppercorns.

“JARVIS,” Tony manages to croak, and blesses the superiority of his own genius over whatever mediocre digital assistants other people have cooked up, for his AI understands him without further words.

The ventilation system turns on immediately, so it takes mere minutes for Tony to be able to see – and breathe – again. Only to burst out laughing. Of all things, he did not expect Captain America, golden boy and all-around quick learner to have turned Tony’s kitchen into a bombed out battlefield.

“This is not funny,” Steve mutters, looking down at the sad remains of whatever he was trying to cook in the pot in his hand.

Tony shakes his head emphatically. “No, you’re right. It’s not.”

When he walks closer, the smell of burnt _something_ becomes almost too much to bear. The pot, that much he can see immediately, is ruined. Not even Dum-E’s boundless enthusiasm will be enough to get the congealed black mass out again.

“What where you trying to do?” Tony asks as he takes the pot from Steve’s hands and dowses the still smoking remains with water before he throws it into the trash.

“It is my turn to cook,” Steve says sheepishly. To make matters worse, he angles towards the trash can as if he contemplates getting the pot back out.

“You call this cooking?” It is all Tony can do not to raise his hands over his head and scream to the heavens. The Italian blood in his veins is shouting for murder. “This is atrocious. I mean -” Tony stops short as his eyes fall on the other pot still sitting almost innocently on the stove. “Are those supposed to be spaghetti?”

Tony’s gut heaves with the urge to either cry or laugh. If they had known about Steve’s horrid cooking skills, they need not have turned him into a supersoldier. They could have simply clad him in an apron and sent him to the Nazis as a cook. The war would have been over before it even began. Battles are not fought well on an empty stomach, and this is outright poison.

“I got distracted making salad,” Steve tries to excuse himself but falls silent when Tony glares at him.

“You get distracted by lifeless greenery and turn your back on the real-life bomb you’ve cooked up yourself?” Tony shakes his head. He wonders how someone with Steve’s metabolism managed to get through life without learning at least the basics of cooking.

Making real spaghetti is an art, Tony will be the first to admit that, but by that he means making them from scratch and with real Italian flavour to it. Every idiot can make noodles. Except for, apparently, their fearless leader.

“I didn’t have much practice,” Steve says, but it sounds so much like a threadbare excuse that Tony clicks his tongue.

“Don’t tell me any nonsense about the Great Depression,” Tony replies flippantly. He takes the second pot from the stove and pushes it right under Steve’s nose. He should face his own shame. “If you didn’t have much food, you should have learned not to waste any.”

Steve narrows his eyes at Tony, then at the ruined spaghetti. “That’s – not how it works,” he protests weakly.

In turn, Tony is occupied with poking at the noodles, grimacing when they blob together, already dissolving, horribly overcooked. Once he deigns them as unsalvageable, they follow Steve’s attempt at a sauce into the trash. The waste hurts, and that despite Tony never having lacked for anything in his life. Nothing material anyway.

He looks around in the kitchen, at the unapologetic mess Steve has left behind. Fight or flight, he thinks. Tony almost regrets that he has never been the kind to back down.

“Well,” he says and shrugs out of his suit jacket, “that’s how it works now.” He has a meeting in half an hour, but surely Pepper will understand that this is more important. They cannot leave Captain America uneducated.

“What are you doing?” Steve asks when, within only a few moments, Tony makes the kitchen his again.

He stacks all the empty packages and bags, brushes the wrangled ruins of cut vegetables remaining on the counters off into the trash can, and wipes the countertops clean before Steve even realizes what is happening.

Picking up two clean cutting boards and knives, Tony sets up two work stations. He is looking into the fridge, getting out fresh – and suitable – food, when he realizes that Steve is still not moving.

“I’m going to show you how to cook,” he says, expecting that to explain everything.

Steve, however, merely stares. “You know how to cook?”

Tony supposes he must make for an unexpected picture, standing in business clothes in front of the open fridge. They have never seen him here other than to get new coffee or sit down for take-out or food someone else has cooked. As a billionaire and constantly busy man, he thinks he should forgive Steve his doubt, but the open scepticism still hurt his pride.

“I’m half-Italian, honey,” Tony counters, rolling his eyes. Having loaded his arms full of ingredients, he pushes the fridge close with his hip. “Of course I can cook.”

While Tony arranges everything he needs around his cutting board, Steve stares. When Tony begins cutting onion and garlic with a speed that is usually reserved for flicking through blueprints, Steve stares. When Tony picks spices without hesitation and smiles at their scent, Steve stares. When Tony haggles two pots and saves Steve’s attempt at a salad at the same time, Steve stares.

To give him credit, Steve also nods at everything Tony says, and manages to cut one zucchini in the time that Tony needs for all the other vegetables. He remembers which box contains the oregano when Tony asks him to add some more to the sauce. And he knows what _al dente_ is supposed to be, if not how to get there.

So, Steve is not hopeless, but throughout all of it he does not stop staring. He is most interested in Tony’s hands and the way he manages to not get stains on his clothes. At the end of it, he looks at Tony with utter awe.

“Here,” Tony says, holding out a spoon with sauce. “I’m not sure if it needs more pepper.”

Steve appears to realize too late that he could have taken the spoon out of Tony’s hand. Instead, he blushes as he bows down and lets Tony feed him. It is adorable enough that Tony refrains from commenting. Especially since Steve’s eyes widen and he hums contentedly.

“This is good,” Steve says once he has straightened again, the colour on his cheeks still lingering.

Tony grins. People usually expect so much from him, while constantly underestimating him. He knows how to do other things than build weapons and suits of armour. The workshop might be his favourite place these days, but that is because real life does not leave him much time to waste it with cooking.

“I don’t know why you’re surprised,” Tony says, just a hint of a challenge in his tone. Then he turns to add some more pepper, just so he does not have to look at Steve when he answers.

“You’re,” Steve begins and trails off. “Well – _you_.”

Tony’s grin loses some of its humour. He walks over to the cupboard to get out plates and cutlery for their always hungry group.

“When have I ever been bad at anything?” he asks, flippant, and grabs his suit jacket, putting it on like armour.

“People,” Steve answers without hesitation, but he sounds apologetic.

The thing with Steve is, Tony has resented him for far longer than he has loved him, for far longer than he has known him too. There is always friction where the two of them are involved. Their opinions on certain topics will always differ. On the other hand, they simply click. When Steve looks at him like that, Tony cannot stay put out.

“I beg to differ,” Tony drawls but does so with his face open again. From Steve’s small relieved sigh, he knows it is understood that everything is well between them. “I’m fantastic with people.”

Fighting against a smile, Steve straightens. “I mean, do you remember when you –”

“Listen to that,” Tony cuts him off, half-laughing. Everybody has a dozen examples of when Tony was less than able to solve a situation diplomatically. There is a logic to that, of course, because no one leaves nice people alone. No one buys weapons from a man without bite either. “Captain America eats my food while he’s trying to insult me.”

This sounds dangerously close to how Howard used to say, _As long as you live under my roof_. Laughter bursts from Steve’s lips, though, short but honest, so Tony relaxes his shoulders that have instinctively straightened.

“I’ll do the dishes?” Steve offers, still smiling.

“Not good enough,” Tony says as he pushes a stack of plates into Steve’s hands to distribute on the table. “That’s your part anyway. The cook doesn’t have to clean.”

Steve gets to setting the table without complaint and they work well together. Once everything is done, Tony asks JARVIS to inform the rest of the Avengers that dinner is ready. He turns toward the giant pots of spaghetti and sauce, ready to begin piling food on the plates, when Steve stops him with a hand on his arm.

“Thank you.”

Tony rolls his eyes but is secretly glad. People do not often thank him. “I couldn’t have let you starve,” he says but does not manage to make it sound as dismissing as he aimed for. Perhaps some honesty will not hurt him this time. “Then again, don’t thank me yet. When’s the next time you’re up to cook for the team?”

Steve frowns. “Why? Do you want to make sure you’re not home?” he asks cautiously, not exactly like he thinks that Tony regrets wasting his past hour, but also not like he understands that Tony has had _fun_.

“I’m going to clear my schedule, silly.” Since Steve is looking at him utterly dumbfounded, Tony elaborates. “Let’s say your Thursday evenings are mine from now on.”

“What?” Steve asks. He obviously does not get where this is going.

“Clearly you need more lessons,” Tony says, pointing at the trashcan with a mischievous grin. “I’m not going to throw you out any time soon, but I couldn’t live myself if you starved to death or poisoned yourself just because you can boil water. So lessons. On Thursdays.”

Tony thinks that the way Steve’s expression brightens is a good sign. Maybe they are really going to make this team thing work.

“I’d like that,” Steve admits quietly but the frown is not yet completely gone. “But only if you really have time.”

“Of course I do.” Tony does not. He never has, but that does not matter. “Go ahead and pick the recipe you want to try next.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
